


The Bassam Rally Mystery

by the_jade_violin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post - The Abominable Bride
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-20 00:17:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5985931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_jade_violin/pseuds/the_jade_violin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock escapes from house arrest to investigate the murder of a man in France with ties to a terrorist organization.  While he and John spend several nights in the Vernet estate, Sherlock is haunted by dreams of his past, and a chapter of life he tried to forget comes once again to the forefront.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. N'oublie pas

N'oublie Pas

 

"Him again?" inquired Mary Watson as she fastened her robe.  John's phone signaled an incoming text message for the tenth time that morning.

"Yes, it's him.  Of course it's him," he sighed, and pulled out Mary's chair from the breakfast table.

"Well are you going to read this one?"

"No, no I'm not, Mary.  I told you, they're all the same."  He offered his very pregnant wife an arm as she sat down.  "He wants me to run off with him to France on some murder case, no thought given to our lives, or your due date in two weeks..."

"Oh, John," Mary interrupted, rubbing at her temples. "Go.  Just... go."

"What?"

"Go. You've done nothing but cater to my every wish these last few weeks, and frankly, its driving me a little bit insane."

"Insane?" John swallowed.

Mary rose from the table.  "Oh, shush.  You know what I mean."

"Insane, really?" he repeated, and his hands clenched at his sides. "I thought you wanted this... thought you wanted us... at home, waiting together..."

"I did," she approached and wrapped her arms around her tense husband's middle.  "Really, I thought I did, but... it's just a bit much.  I need some room to breathe, and some time to think about anything  _but_ the baby for a few days."

"But Mary, it's... just around the corner.  You could go into labor any time, and you want me to go to  _France_?  With someone who is quite possibly _actually_ insane?"

"I'll be fine.  You'll be fine, John.  Think of it as one last 'hurrah' before, well..."

"Before we kiss our freedom goodbye?" he smirked.

* * *

 

John arrived at the airport to find his friend wearing a navy blue business suit, staring at his watch impatiently.

"Flight leaves in an hour, John. Could you have cut it a little closer?"

"Well I'm here now." Dr. Watson eyed the detective from head to toe.  "Business formal, are we?"

Sherlock straightened his tie and began to walk towards the security check.  "Attempting to blend in."  

John rolled his eyes.

"Morning, sir, how are you?"  John blinked as he realized the friendly demeanor and perfect American accent had originated from none other than his companion. Sherlock handed his passport to the Agent for inspection.  John could just make out the name, which was printed next to a photo of Sherlock wearing an uncharacteristic genuine smile.

_David Turner_

The man glanced over the document, and motioned for Sherlock to move through, doing the same for John a moment later.

When they had made it through airport security and sat re-tying their shoes, John whispered through gritted teeth.  "Are you going to explain?"

"No."

John's newly applied boot crashed down onto Sherlock's toe.

"Agh," he snarled.  "Fine. Certain relatives of mine would prefer that I not leave the country."

"Ah, Mycroft." John nodded, smiling sardonically.  "He also made me swear on my wife's continued citizenship that I keep him abreast of any criminal behavior..."

"And?" Sherlock interrupted rudely, stretching out the vowel. Then he sighed.  "Calm down, John.  I'll have you back, safe and sound, long before Mycroft ever notices my absence."

"Fine, but this had better be good."

...

Just after take-off, Sherlock reached under his seat and retrieved the nondescript briefcase he had carried onboard.  The brass latches clicked as he opened it to reveal a mass of newspapers.  He pulled a pen from his jacket, and began to busy himself with circling passages, and making notes in the margins in his long spindly script.  John watched, fascinated, as his friend went on in this manner for nearly half an hour, not even acknowledging the stewardess who stopped to ask if they needed anything.

"Sorry about him.  I'll have a water water, please," John requested, "and nothing for hi-."

"Cigarette." Sherlock enunciated suddenly.

"Excuse me?" The stewardess' eyebrows raised in confusion.

"I'll have a cigarette, please."  The American accent was still startling, and John scratched his ear nervously. 

"Sir, you can't smoke onboard."

"Oh?" replied Sherlock, genuinely surprised.  "Then as my friend stated, I will have nothing."

When the woman had passed them by a few rows, John began to smirk. "When's the last time you flew in a regular plane?  1955?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and handed one of the papers to John.

"What's this?"

"The case. It's a murder. Quite straightforward, or at least that's what the French police think."

John looked over the words intently, willing the language he'd once studied in school to come back to him.  "Sorry, my French, it's not that..."

Sherlock sighed, and took the paper back, placing it atop the others.  "Athil Bassam. Seventeen years old. Born in Iran, emigrated when he was seven. Multiple run-ins with the law, including armed robbery, which landed him in a juvenile center for the last two years. It was a four year sentence, but he was released early for good behavior, having supposedly reformed himself into a model student, and earning the grades to prove it. The father, Fariq Bassam, was linked to a terrorist cell based in Iran, and deported during his son's stay in prison.  Mr. Bassam reappeared in Paris at an anti-government rally inexplicably last week, and two days later was found dead.

"The police have identified the primary suspect as his son, Athil.  Their suspicion is based upon the boy's story, in which he claims to have argued with his father just moments before his death, and the multiple stab wounds inflicted by a blade bearing none other than the younger Mr. Athil's fingerprints on the hilt.  The boy's shirt was also splattered with blood, confirmed by DNA analysis to be that of his father.  Damning evidence to be sure, and yet -"

Sherlock trailed off, and began crumpling the newspapers together into a giant ball.

"And yet?" John echoed.

Sherlock aimed the ball perfectly into the stewardess' passing rubbish bin.  

"I don't think he did it."  

 

 

 


	2. Barbe Rouge

Barbe Rouge

Mycroft Holmes entered the grand residence, and with a nod from the security guards, was escorted to a door at the end of a long hallway.  He paused to flick a spot of lint from the shoulder of his very best suit.  Then he knocked, and entered.

"Mycroft, my old friend," said the man, rising from behind his desk.  

"Prime Minister."

"Come in, sit down, have a drink." The head of state began to pour a glass of whiskey from an ornate decanter on his desk.

"Thank you." Mycroft accepted the glass and sat, as instructed.  He sniffed at the tumbler and was rewarded by the scent of Dalmore, 64 year no doubt, but his first sip did nothing to calm his nerves. "Can I ask, sir, to what I owe the distinct pleasure?"

"Mr. Holmes, I asked you here to discuss a matter of a rather... personal... nature."

"Prime Minister, I can assure you that you have my full confidential privilege..."

"Mycroft," he interrupted, "This matter is personal to you, not me."  He paused, poured a drink for himself, and began again. "I have recently been debriefed on an incident involving your brother."

"Sir, I can assure you that the situation is fully under control.  After he assisted us in confirming that the man called Moriarty was in fact deceased and no longer a threat, we placed Sherlock under house arrest on Baker street, to await a further hearing for his assassination of Magnussen.  An assassination, which, may I remind you, two of our best operatives had failed to complete..."

Mycroft felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.  Anthea would have to wait.

"Furthermore," he continued "the details of the Magnussen case were supposed to be confidential, even for you, Prime Minister."

The Prime Minister sat has drink on his desk, and watched it for a moment before speaking.

"Mycroft, I have known you since our college days, and I hope you know that I hold for you the utmost respect and trust.  As your friend, I have known exceedingly few happenings to pass your gaze unnoticed.  But, there have been stirrings in Eastern Europe of late..." He slid a photo across the table, and then another enlarged copy which more clearly illuminated the man's features.

Mycroft froze, speechless for once.  There was no mistaking that face.

"I wasn't speaking about Sherlock."

* * *

 

Athil Bassam rolled over in his cot, clutching his stomach.  The pain, persistent for the last three years, had only worsened over the past week.  His ears rang, but as the clanging on his cell door continued, he mustered his strength and rose from bed.

"Athil Bassam.  Visitor for you.  A Mr. Holmes would like to speak with you."

"Send him in.  Thank you."  Another wave of pain, and Athil's arms rose again to his middle.

A tall man with dark brown, almost black hair, and a long black overcoat strode into the room.  "Ah. Stomach ulcer," he noted, motioning towards the boy's stance and grimace. "They treat that with antibiotics, you know."

The man stepped closer.  There was a menacing air about him, as if his light grey eyes could pierce into Athil's very soul.  He stood his ground silently, not wanting to appear weak in front of such a man.

"Well, if you won't, then I will. 'Mr. Holmes, how are you going to get me out of here?'" The man's voice was shrill and mocking. Then, his demeanor changed.  He put his hand on the boy's shoulder, and his voice was almost soothing now. "Not to worry, Athil.  I have a signed confession against which no one can argue."

Athil's eyes caught fire.  He could no longer feel physical pain, only grief for his sins and for his father.  "Who?" he demanded.

Mr. Holmes folded his hands.  "Later.  I shall tell all in good time.  But for now, I am here to warn you."

The boy prayed silently that the tears which threatened his eyelids would not fall.  "Of what, Mr Holmes?  What fate could possibly befall me which I would fear now?  I have nothing left in the world."  He sat dejectedly on the cot again, and laid his head in his hands.

"It is not a fate, but a man.  My brother is coming here to speak to you.  You must tell him nothing more than what he already knows - the story you gave to the police.  Nothing more of the argument, of your motives - "

"My motives!" Athil spat indignantly.  "My motives were pure."

"I must remind you, dear boy, that I and only I hold the key to your swift release.  You must hold fast to our agreement."  Sherrinford Holmes' steely visage suddenly melted into a smile.  "Then all will be well."

He turned to leave. Without warning, he turned on his heels, and chucked a prescription bottle onto the bed beside Athil.  "Clarithromycin.  For the ulcer."  He exited the cell, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Molly Hooper was on her last post-mortem of the night.  Her heels ached from a full day on her feet, and she could think of nothing better than answering the call of her sofa, a glass of wine, and mindless telly.  Still, she tried to remain positive.  Earbuds in, ABBA playlist working its magic, she sang along under her breath as she made the final cuts of tissue to remove the dead man's heart for weighing.

Oy, it was a big one.  She lifted it out gingerly, and half-walked, half-danced the short steps to the scale.

And then the doors burst open.  As she jumped, the large organ tumbled from Molly's hands onto the linoleum floor, leaving a little smeared track of blood.

"Good evening Ms. Hooper," said Mycroft Holmes, his half-hearted smile quickly changing into a disgusted grimace as he took stock of the scene. "Apologies for my abrupt entrance, would you like a h-" He couldn't bring himself to finish the offer of courtesy.

"No, no, it's - ok.  It's fine."  Molly quickly recovered the mess, and plopped it in a nearby bin.  "C-can I... help you with something?"

"Yes.  Yes, indeed you can, Ms. Hooper."  She could sense irritation in his voice.  "You see, I'm perplexed by something, really.  It's quite odd."

"Wh-what's that?"

"As you know, my dear brother has very few friends in this world of the human variety, and absolutely none of the animal kind.  Therefore, you can understand my confusion at his apparently most recent hobby of pet-sitting."  The consonants were spat out deliberately as he placed a hand in his jacket-pocket to retrieve his mobile.

"Oh, r-really?  You're - you're here about Tobey? It's just that, w-well, Sherlock had taken rather a liking to him after - well, when he stayed with me when - n-nevermind... And, well, h-he just thought that Mrs. Hudson..."

"Mrs. Hudson!"  Mycroft exclaimed.  "Really!"  He thumbed over his phone screen now, seemingly swiping through pictures, and stopped at last, holding the screen out to her.  "Do you think this is how Mrs. Hudson is prone to treating members of the animal kingdom?" 

There, on the screen was Tobey, wearing a rather bulky and unusual collar.  On further inspection, Molly realized it could only be one thing.  Sherlock's ankle monitor.  Molly gasped.

"I-I didn't know..."

"I am sure you did not, Ms. Hooper," interrupted Mycroft.  "But if information reaches you, any information at all, regarding my brother's whereabouts, please -" he handed her a business card " - do not hesitate.  My brother's life - all our lives if I am speaking openly - may be at stake."

Molly accepted the card, but said nothing.  

"He trusts you, you know.  And if you care for him, I implore you to trust me as well."

"A-alright."

As he turned and left the morgue, Molly muttered under her breath.

"And it's  _Dr._ Hooper."

 

 


End file.
